


Severing

by Syntaniel



Series: What Fate Sees [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, There is a death, but there's a happy at the end, for a degree of happy, of a sort, so don't tell me you haven't been warned, the title is predictive if you've read the first two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 12:10:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8578057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syntaniel/pseuds/Syntaniel
Summary: I don't want to call this the third of a trilogy because I'm not sure that I won't go back to an earlier portion and I have some ideas of side threads that I want to wander down but what this is, for sure, is the end of the story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story starts with the sweet and then... well. The title is well earned and endings are generally sad. Though, being me, there's a happy at the end, in a manner of speaking. At least, I don't think you'll hate me long. But I know several people thought there wasn't enough comfort at the end of my last fic so I thought I'd post the first chapter of this for a bit of sweet. Nothing explicit unless you consider two men kissing explicit.  
> It might be a bit before I get more up. The last chapter and the epilogue are already done at least but the middle is taking me a bit to get just right.  
> also, I know the Whitman poem came out in the 1850s. I don't care - that bit of the scene has been burning in my brain far too long to give it up now. Consider d'Artagnan momentarily a poetical genius.  
> Consider yourself fairly warned.

The dawning sunlight turned Athos' pale skin gold and d'Artagnan propped himself up on his elbow to enjoy the play of light. Nearly two decades had passed since this man had come into his life and he found himself even more grateful for that twist of providence now than he had been then. His eyes traced the older man's face, smugly noting the laugh lines now intermixed with the ones brought on by duty and care. He couldn't help but smile wider as the light turned Athos' hair, peppered liberally now with grey, back to a dark youthful gold.

The years had been filled far beyond his expectations in the dismal days after he first lost his father. There had been adventure and excitement, battles won and lost, but also the glory of quiet times at the garrison. Warm nights of wine and chess. The rumble of Porthos laughter as he played at cards. The flash of Aramis' smile. But through it all, Athos solid steady presence, the warmth of him at d'Artagnan's side and, eventually, in his bed. He had spent nights learning every curve, every muscle, every scar of this body and regretted not one moment of it.

The sheet fell down to his waist as d'Artagnan could no longer resist reaching up a hand to run it gently through Athos' hair. The other man didn't awake but turned his face into d'Artagnan's touch unconsciously, contentment written on his sleeping features. D'Artagnan savored the contact for a moment before allowing his hand to drift down onto the planes of Athos' chest, almost featherlight in his touch. Though age had brought a certain softness, it was slight, and he could still feel the strength of those muscles under his touch. 

He was tracing the faded length of a scar further down to flat expanse of Athos' stomach when a firm hand caught up his wrist and pushed him over in one smooth movement. D'Artagnan laughed, the sound clear as a bell, as Athos pinned his wrist to the bed. "That tickles," he mock growled down at d'Artagnan and the warmth in his blue eyes as the light danced stole d'Artagnan's breath for a moment. He would never get used to being the object of that look. Never. 

D'Artagnan's smile turned fond, his dark brown eyes still clear though now his youthful face had lines of its own. "O Captain, my captain," He reached up with his free hand, running it up Athos' spine, enjoying the shiver it produced as his calluses rasped against his skin.

Athos nipped at the hand playfully as he caressed his cheek again, "You're the one in charge of the regiment now, layabout."

The solemn look in those dark brown eyes stilled Athos as d'Artagnan responded softly, "You will always be my Captain." The sweetness in the words, in his eyes, was too much for Athos, even after all this time, and he darted his head down to press his lips against the other man's before he could say anything more. 

D'Artagnan arched up into the kiss and Athos let go his wrist to run his hands down d'Artagnan's chest. The younger man had become almost rangy with age. His sinewy form was corded with muscle but, despite their best efforts, they'd never managed to keep any amount of weight on him. Hard muscle greeted Athos' touch and his fingers lingered over the patches of rough skin where bone deep wounds had healed. Theydanced around the scar tissue, knowing that the difference in sensation was maddening to the other man. 

"Athos," d'Artagnan breathed. But whatever else he would have said was lost as a knock resounded on the thick wooden door. 

Athos groaned and dropped his head into the crook of d'Artagnan's neck, muttering curses at whoever was disturbing them, before falling back against the bed. D'Artagnan laughed again as he got up and grabbed his breeches, though in truth he was no more pleased than Athos. He left his belt loose and walked by his shirt tossing a wicked grin at Athos as he padded over to the door. Shaking his head, Athos contemplated the curve of d'Artagnan's naked back as he opened the door, leaning in the gap so that whoever it was could not see inside the room. 

Almost as soon as the door was opened, d'Artagnan straightened, the smile falling from his face. Concerned by the sudden change, Athos strained to hear what was being said. "Captain d'Artagnan?" D'Artagnan nodded, his brow furrowing. Athos swung his legs over the bed and reached for his own clothes as he heard the messenger continue, "Message for you and Captain Athos from the Queen. You're summoned to the Palace immediately."

D'Artagnan turned the missive over in his hands, a sense of foreboding coming over him at the sight of the writing, the black slashes stark against the parchment. Shaking his head to dispel it, he nodded curtly at the messenger, "I'll fetch Athos myself and we'll be there." He closed the door without waiting for the messenger to bow. 

Athos was shrugging on his jacket, his sword already belted at his waist. "Does it say anything else?"

The white strands in his dark hair winked in the light as d'Artagnan shook his head, squinting as he read the note quickly, "Nothing of detail. Just an immediate summons."

Athos pulled on his boots with some alacrity. "Then we should get going." He didn't seem to know he was frowning, his dark eyes stormy, until a shirt hit him in the chest. A crooked smile graced d'Artagnan's face as Athos sputtered for a second in surprise. Athos recovered, throwing the shirt back at D'Artagnan who caught it smoothly. He dressed quickly through long habit as always finishing with his pauldron, now battered and scarred as his skin, sitting on his shoulder as if it was molded there.

For a moment, looking at him, Athos could see the ghost of the young man he'd been - all long limbs and energy, a stiff new pauldron shining on his shoulder, that same grin looking back at him. He smiled, as much at the memory as the man before him. The sheer contentment in that smile was near blinding as Athos pulled d'Artagnan in to press their foreheads together for a moment. "Shall we go off for Queen and Country?"

D'Artagnan chuckled at the teasing tone in the words, "If we're being summoned by the Queen at this hour, I think it only fair that we bring Aramis and Porthos as well." He tucked the bright memory of Athos' answering laugh away with a million other such memories as the two strode off to collect their friends and head for the Palace. 

**

The Dowager Queen had lost none of her beauty over the years, though after Louis' death, much of her color had faded till she was as luminescent as a pearl. Her grey silk gown shone against the blue velvet of the smaller receiving room as the Musketeers strode in. D'Artagnan and Athos led the way, flanked by Aramis and Porthos. Porthos had perhaps aged the least of them, or the least noticeably, age showing itself only in the slight curve to his shoulders and the specks of white in his hair and beard. Aramis remained dashing as ever, age not taking away one whit of his charm, and the lines on his face bore proof to a multitude of smiles and pleasurable sins alike. 

Despite her own urgency, the Queen smiled slightly at the sight of them, lingering for a long moment on Aramis but showing no surprise that her summons of two had turned into four. "Musketeers, I am glad you came so quickly." Her smile falls away and her brow furrowed. "Captains, the King, my son, has gone to Navarre to try and negotiate a border treaty with Spain."

D'Artagnan started and Athos arched an eyebrow. "The Minister of War was to attend that meeting, not the King." D'Artagnan's voice was sharp. "Which was why I agreed to send only a small delegation of Musketeers. To preserve the secrecy of the arrangement." Porthos winced at the growing anger in the other man's voice but didn't intervene. He was too busy minding a suddenly pale Aramis.

For her part, the Queen hung her head and had the grace to be embarrassed "Apparently, my son saw fit to order his bodyguards to accompany him to Navarre so he could take part in the negotiations. They left yesterday and their absence was discovered this morning." 

With Porthos hand on his elbow, Aramis cursed under his breath while Athos and d'Artagnan exchanged considering glances. "If he took all his personal guards, he'd have what, six Musketeers?" Athos mused.

D'Artagnan nodded, already mentally running through the roster to determine who should be sent after them, "Nicholas' and Francois' triads." 

Rubbing his beard, Athos tilted his head, "Could be worse. But..."

Before he could continue, the Queen broke in, "Gentlemen." She waited until she has their attention. "I have worse news." The Queen looked away as she spoke, a poor disguise for the worry on her face. "Comte Bernais' spies have sent word this morning of an assassin in the ranks of the servants attending on the meeting. Unwarned, they have no chance. The Minister would be loss enough, but my son..." Face composed now with over a decade's practice, the Queen turned back to them, though the strain showed around her eyes. She handed d'Artagnan a folded parchment. "This is the Comte's description of the assassin with everything he knows about them."

Again, d'Artagnan felt a heaviness descend, some foreboding touch as the parchment crinkled between his gloved fingers. He committed the words to memory before handing the parchment to Athos to repeat the process. The Queen waited till he meets her eyes again before she continued, "They must get this information. I cannot lose my son to an assassin. There is as yet no heir." Desperation shines in her eyes as she met the gaze of each Musketeer in turn. "There would be war. With Spain, within France." She shook her head. "That cannot happen."

D'Artagnan considered her for a moment, "You want us to go to warn them."

The Queen nods. "They'll believe you, any of you, without question." She smiled at Aramis as best she could and then let the smile encompass them all, "There is no one else I would trust more with my son." 

"A small group can move faster and is less likely to be detected." Athos' blue eyes swept over the others though he knew what he'd find. Porthos gave him a grin and Aramis was already straining to be on the move.

D'Artagnan's brow was furrowed as he ran through the logistics needed for such a plan but he nodded shortly. "We'll leave directly. The faster we're on the road, the faster the message is delivered." He chewed at his lip a bit, a habit he'd never outgrown, as he tucked the parchment back into his doublet. "I left Guillaume in charge of the regiment; he'll do well enough in my absence."

Before he can take his leave, the Queen caught his hand in her own. All four men pause at the unexpected action. Aramis starts forward at the look on her face but her eyes seem to burn as they rake over the men, pinning them in place. "That information must get through. It must. No matter the cost." Her voice held faith and sorrow and fear in equal measure, the sum total of her heart. 

D'Artagnan didn't need to glance at the others now. He knows their answer. The four Musketeers bow low as he answers for them all, "On our honor, my lady. It will reach the King."

In a swirl of capes, the four men set out and the Queen watched them go, whispering, "Godspeed."

**

Out of habit, Aramis and Porthos went to scrounge up weapons and provisions for the ride while Athos and d'Artagnan stop in the Palace library to review the maps. It took them only moments to agree that cutting through the forest was the fastest way, truly the only way to reach Navarre in time. "We'll have to ride through the night," d'Artagnan murmured, tracing the route with his finger as he mentally ran through everything they'd need for the mission. 

"Our options are limited," Athos nodded grimly, the joy of the morning just a memory. Still, his lip quirked as he met d'Artagnan's eyes, "Time to save the day again."

D'Artagnan's hand clasped his wrist, the warmth of it singing through his system. "Till duty or death, Athos." The words, well worn between them with frequent use, seem as much a declaration to Athos then as they had nearly two decades before in a dark alley. 

"Till duty or death." 

** *


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting the rest of this all at once because if an author did this to me and didn't give me at least the modicum of comfort at the end, I would be pissed. I almost never write anything with significant death in it for good reasons and I was shocked when this one popped, nearly fully formed, into my head while I was writing the first of this series. This is as much an exorcism as it is a writing. And I promise I'm unlikely to do this ever again.

Within the hour, the Musketeers set out. Rather than stop, they change horses at a postillon when night fell but keep moving with a dogged determination. The sunshine of the morning only a distant memory by that point. It had been swallowed up by thunderous clouds that had all of them eyeing the sky with concern as a bitter wind began to rise. Aramis' still sharp eyes can see the tell tale signs of snow as he pulls up his collar for better protection, "The forest path will be treacherous if this storm holds true." 

Grim faced, d'Artagnan shakes his head, "We must keep to our path. The Queen is right - if the King is killed, there will be civil war. There's no clear heir right now and the Spanish will surely take the opportunity to start another war on the border. There's no faster way to the mountain pass and Navarre than through the forest. And..." Dark eyes scan the empty road behind them. 

Porthos answers his questing look with a nod, "We're being followed. Picked us up just after we changed 'orses." 

D'Artagnan winces, "I had hoped it was paranoia." He looks to Athos, who inclined his head at the unspoken question. "We stick to the plan. We might be able to lose them in the forest and if not, I'd rather we fight from strength rather than split up and risk getting caught out alone."

A lonely snowflake drifts down to land on his glove as he finished, but the ache of old wounds warns him that it wouldn't be alone long and d'Artagnan looks up with a fierce light in his eyes. "I'll not risk us getting caught if the pass is blocked." For a moment, d'Artagnan thinks he sees a flick of a dark braid behind them, a swish of something that might be a dark robe before realizing it's just the play of the shadows in the trees. He shakes his head, "The King must be warned." He does not wait for their reply; he's known them too long not to be sure of their agreement. With a silent prayer to the sky, he spurs his horse into flight. 

** *

They ride through the night and into the morn, though the storm obscures any sight of the dawn. Cloaks pulled tight, leaned into the bitter wind, they eek every moment of speed from their mounts, taking rests only when necessary and as brief as possible. The wind howls but by mid morning, the crashing behind them is too loud to be just the storm. 

Aramis takes point, using his sharp eyes to spot the surest way through the forest. Just behind him, Porthos rides hard on his heels, tossing dark looks over his shoulder, but not daring to slow. Athos glances behind them and then spurs his horse from where he'd been guarding their rear to draw even with d'Artagnan. Without slowing, he exchanges looks with the other man, "They're gaining ground." There's an anguish in his eyes that rips d'Artagnan to his core and more than that. Nearly two decades in the company of these men, this man, and the look of certainty, of regret, on Athos' face was enough to make his heart stutter. 

Till duty or death, that look said. Grimly, d'Artagnan looks behind, making his decisions quickly, "We'll send Porthos and Aramis ahead. Buy them time." Athos opens his mouth, surely to protest, but d'Artagnan cuts him off with a quick shake of his head. "The King will believe either of them. I am not leaving you. My duty is here."

Before Athos can argue, d'Artagnan kicks his horse to gain Porthos' side. With a quick motion, he holds the missive out, "Porthos!" He doesn't need to explain. As soon as Porthos sees the parchment, he knows what d'Artagnan is going to say. "Take Aramis and go ahead!"

"It's too late!" Aramis' cries from the front, discharging both his pistols as three men burst onto the path in front of him. The third man remains, blocking the path and he tries desperately to turn his horse from its headlong flight, to no avail. The poor animal rears before falling, flinging Aramis backwards as it screams its own terror. 

Porthos crashes into the third man, growling vengenance, even as four more men come up from the sides. Another half dozen had finally caught up to them and Athos wheels his horse to engage the men who had come up behind. D'Artagnan fires his shots at the men surrounding Porthos, trying desperately to free the man up to escape, but as he drops his pistols to draw his sword, the world seems to drop out from under him as a stray bullet strikes his horse in the neck.

The animal doesn't even have the chance to scream as it drops, but d'Artagnan does as the weight of the animal crushes his leg underneath. Pain washes his vision red but he can hear the cries of his friends around him. Gritting his teeth, d'Artagnan screams in rage as he pulled his leg free from the animal. His knee is at an odd angle and he can feel something torn wrong inside his torso. But d'Artagnan can't care about that now. The King. The others. Must save...

Dark eyes spot see Porthos to the side, holding his own against two men. The sound of a pistol firing just behind him gives him hope that Aramis is still fighting, though he can not see the Spaniard. But when his eyes fall on Athos, d'Artagnan's heart stop. Athos is standing still, his horse long gone, his sword and main gauche flashing in the scant light as he holds four men on the narrow path, barring the way like a wall of churning steel. Bodies at his feet attest to his skill but d'Artagnan can see the blood at his forehead, streaming down his arms, everywhere. And another man coming up behind him. 

D'Artagnan is up before he can question it. His left leg burns and will not answer his commands but he drags it behind him, desperate to reach Athos, when two men rush him from the side. Unable to move his leg, d'Artagnan braces at the last minute. His own steel flashes but he's able to fell them only with great difficulty and two more spring towards him as soon as they have fallen. He engages the blade of one of the newcomers, pushing it out of line and crashing them together, even as he slams his main guache up into the blade of the other, forcing it back to pierce the man's chest. His left arm goes numb at the impact and he's forced to drop the main guache as the man fell. His other opponent stepped back and quickly engaged him again when d'Artagnan felt it. There was no sound, no noise to alert him, but something inside his chest stilled and in the pause of that moment, d'Artagnan looks up. 

Blue eyes catch his, one last glance, every feeling flashing through like lightning, before the light goes out and they close. Athos falls to the ground, the last of his opponents falling with him. D'Artagnan makes no sound, though a keening has set up in the back of his head. Hollow eyes turn back to his opponent, who pales at whatever he saw in d'Artagnan's face. A flurry of steel and that man too fell. This time, no one comes to replace him. 

Though he wants to rush to Athos, d'Artagnan forces himself to survey the battlefield, turning just in time to see Porthos dispatch the last of their attackers before the bigger man hunches over, breathing heavily. Taking a deep breath himself, d'Artagnan turns to go to Athos only to have fire burn down his leg, freezing him in his tracks. When the pain recedes, he can see Aramis crumpled on the ground next to him at the base of a tree. Unable to catch his breath to speak, d'Artagnan drags himself over to his friend, his numb arm hanging at his side, and leans down. 

Aramis' lips are moving but the words are disjointed, "Porthos... son... dark... my son!" D'Artagnan tries to soothe him as he brushes a hand over his friend's white streaked curls, only to swallow hard when his hand comes away coated in blood. As gently as he can, d'Artagnan tilts his head up. Aramis' eyes are unequal, one blown wide and the other narrowed to a point, and d'Artagnan can tell that his friend can neither see nor track him. Aramis is still muttering and flecks of blood appear at his lips. D'Artagnan moves his friends' cloak just enough to see the odd shape of his side where the ribs have clearly been pushed in, before flicking the cloak back again as he closes his eyes against the sight. 

"D'Artagnan!" It's Porthos behind him, staggering towards him and Aramis. He's holding out the parchment out with one hand, his other arm clutched against his middle, with his eyes locked on Aramis and their last remaining horse behind him.

His intention is clear and d'Artagnan feels himself smile softly as he approaches without taking his eyes from Aramis. "Porthos." There's a horrible gentleness in his voice that brings Porthos' dark eyes up to his face and he can see the truth about Aramis without the need for words. Porthos sags and d'Artagnan tries to move towards him, only to have his leg scream in pain and give out beneath him. He sags back against the tree and lets himself slide to the ground next to Aramis. 

Porthos crouches at his side, eyes wild, "I'll tie you to the horse. You can take it."

D'Artagnan chuffs out a laugh, the adrenaline is draining out of him and he knows that no amount of will is going to make the leg usable again. He lets his head fall back against the tree so he can look Porthos in the eye. "My leg is ruined, Porthos," the words are gentle. "My arm isn't working and there's something broken inside of me. I can feel it." His brown eyes are solemn as he looks at the other man. "Aramis is bleeding in his head, he's told us the signs often enough. And I think his lung is punctured." His good hand stops Porthos from moving the cloak to check. There are things he would not allow his friend to see. 

"Athos...?" Porthos lets the question fade as d'Artagnan flinches. He hangs his head, only to jerk it back up again when d'Artagnan folds his hand back over the parchment and squeezes his hand before pushing it back at him. "It's ok, Porthos. I'll stay here with Aramis. Our brother will not be alone."

"D'Artagnan..." Porthos lets the arm that clenched against his stomach move slightly. 

Sorrow fills d'Artagnan's eyes as he sees the blood and unmistakable scent reaches him. "Then we will be seeing you soon, brother." An inescapable weariness comes over him but there's still a hard light of determination in his clear gaze and he spears Porthos with it, "But you will have time enough. You're the only one who can now. Save the King. Save France."

A moment passes that feels like eternity as Porthos cycles through denial and despair and lands finally on cold hard purpose. He nods, his throat too choked to speak. One last clasp of d'Artagnan's hand and a brief stroke of Aramis' curls, then Porthos is moving. He shoves a spare shirt from the saddlebags underneath his leathers to act as a makeshift bandage and, bracing himself, forces himself into the saddle. He denies himself a last look, fearing he might not be able to leave if he does, and d'Artagnan watches as he plunges into the forest. 

The sound of the horse fades quickly and silence falls on the forest, broken only by the faint sound of hitched breaths. More than anything, d'Artagnan wants to drag himself over to Athos, run his hand over the other man's hair one last time. But that would leave Aramis. And d'Artagnan cannot do that now. Not when Athos is beyond feeling it. With his good arm, d'Artagnan pulls Aramis into his side, wrapping his friend with his own cloak and then spreading his over them both as best he could. Aramis' is no longer speaking, but d'Artagnan can feel the gentle hitch of his breaths as he pulls him close. The snow is falling harder now and d'Artagnan judges by the depth of the silence that's fallen, that it must be night.

He feels Aramis' body start to shake and holds the man through what must be a seizure. The sharpshooter's dark head is resting against d'Artagnan's shoulder when it passes and he can feel the soft puff of his breaths against his neck, slowing. Tears rise but they're frozen against his lashes before they can fall. "It's ok, Aramis," d'Artagnan says gently, holding the other man to him. "Athos is waiting and Porthos will be with us soon." He spares a moment of regret for what Porthos will have to endure. The wound was a mortal one without a doubt but gut wounds are a slow, painful way to die. He would not wish it on his friend for the world, except that it will give him the time to finish the mission. And he had no doubts that Porthos would do exactly that. His own pain is receding now, leaving him almost warm in its absence. Sluggishly, his thoughts turn to better times and he wraps the memories around him like a cloak of their own.

The night goes on in its indifference. The cold bites with a bitter wind as the snow continues to fall. D'Artagnan holds Aramis close, relishing the contact of the dark head on his shoulder, and he puts his head on top of his and closes his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

Porthos rides through the forest with a desperation he'd never known before. The mountain pass is narrow but clear and his poor horse valiantly tackles the rough ground at a foolhardy speed. He clings to the thought of the King and refuses to let his thoughts drift back to what he's behind him, or who. There's a hollowness in him in a way that he can't explain, even by the fact that some of his insides are slowly pushing out against the makeshift bandage. If his cheeks are wet, he absently attributes it to the still falling snow and lets the burn of the oncoming fever keep him warm as he rides.

It's just past dawn of the third day when he clears the mountain pass and see the sun rising over the hunting lodge where the talks were to take place. Porthos is barely conscious but he does make it, the horse collapsing underneath him when he reins it in. He would spare a thought of sorrow for the animal but he cannot think of anything but the mission now. He's so close...

Secret though the meeting is supposed to be, the Musketeers outside one of the buildings stand as clear to him as a sign, despite their attempts at disguise. The men start when he appears, still tall and proud though his step is more stagger than swagger and the blood soaking his shirt underneath his torn leathers tells its own tale. He hears them whisper his name and quirks a smile but it keeps them from barring his passage and he's glad of that, though he responds to none of them as he barges into the lodge. His thoughts are a chant, Must reach the King. Must reach the King.

Someone places a hand on his arm but he can see the King further into the room and shrugs it off, keeping on his determined march towards him. The King rushes to meet him, clearly recognizing something is wrong; the shock on his face turning to horror as Porthos stumbles and the blood soaked bandage falls from his leathers. 

Porthos loses a moment or two, pain swamping his every sense, and when his vision clears, he's on the ground, surrounded by several men. His vision is blurring now, but he can just make out the pale face of the King he's known since he was born, the last remnant of his dearest friend. "Majesty..." Porthos chokes a bit on the words, blood coming out the side of his mouth as he tries to suck in enough breath. With herculean effort, he drags the now bloodstained parchment from his vest. "Assassin. Servants."

Distantly, he hears the Musketeers of the guard go on alert and feels the press of the King's hand against his own. "We'll get you help, Porthos." The King's image in front of him is wavering now; Porthos is struck by how much he looks like Aramis as he shouts, "Get the physician! Now!" It's the same tone Aramis used to use when calling for supplies. He thinks it's the Minister of War beside him but he can longer be sure.

"No." The pain is beyond anything Porthos has ever known but he knows he won't have to endure it long. "There's nothing you could do and even if you could," he gasps for every breath, every word, fiercely determined that they will understand this, "it wouldn't be saving me." When the King met his eyes, there's pain there that even a gut wound can't explain. This legend laid low before him, with no more will to fight in him. And he knows. Porthos could see the knowledge dawn on his face even as blackness started to encroach on the edges of his own vision. He wants them to know... "Athos fell in battle. First, as he wanted, the bastard. Aramis," his voice cracks. "He was bleeding in his head and his lungs." Porthos shook his head. He could speak no more of Aramis. 

"And D'artagnan?" The King's voice is shaking as well. 

Porthos closes his eyes against this, the cruelest blow - D'artagnan was still young and had been the King's champion his whole life. "Broken leg, broken arm, said something was broken inside. He couldn't have sat the horse." 

"He may yet..." The King tries, looking desperately young, but snow rushes in the door as more Musketeers come into the lodge, summoned by the commotion. The snow swirls around the floor in a bitter dance, showing him the lie in his words. 

The smallest of half smiles quirked Porthos' lips. "He saw Athos fall." To Porthos, to anyone who had known them, that was explanation enough. The pain from his body was fading away. His tongue felt thick in his mouth and he was no longer sure if the world was getting dark or if was no longer able to keep his eyes open. 

"Porthos, hold on." The King demands, his gloved hands clutching at the big man. "That's an order."

"They're waiting for me," His voice was reduced to a whisper, but something like contentment came his face, easing the lines of pain that had been ingrained there. "One for all..." The darkness consumes his vision but Porthos no longer cares. There was nothing left in this world he wanted to see. He feels his chest slowing and hears the rattle of it, as if from a distance. It seems to go on forever and then there's only silence. Silence and the dark. 

And then, there was a light. Porthos didn't know how but he felt like he was moving towards it. The light grew bigger as he approached, like the dawn cresting the horizon. Shadowed against that light were three figures he knew better than any other. 

Aramis grins when he finally reached them, "Took you long enough, my friend." His eyes were bright, dancing with delight, his jet black curls running riot. Porthos had almost forgotten how vibrant he had looked when he was young. It was years since age had dulled them both. But Aramis was practically glowing at his side as he dragged him forward into a hug.

Athos chuffed him on the shoulder with a proud smile. "Well done, Porthos. Well done." His uniform was clean and unmarred, his pauldron shining on his shoulder. The cares that had lined his face were gone and there was something lighter in those blue eyes than Porthos had ever seen.

Porthos couldn't help but grin at him, which only widened when he saw d'Artagnan standing at Athos' side. "So where are we off to?" He asked the younger man, glorying in the sight of him standing straight and tall, his dark hair unmarred by silver or blood. 

D'artagnan grins at him, giving the slightest of bows towards the light beyond, "To the next adventure of course." As one, the four turned into the light and walked into it, laughing.


End file.
